The Enigma’s Anomaly

I don’t want to go anywhere with señor balaclava, though to be perfectly honest I like him better mister-sadist man. I haven’t seen much of señor balaclava though because the most I got was a blurry image of him driving the car. I think it was him, because it makes more sense for the sadist to do the actual kidnapping.

“Is it time to party? Or maybe time to let free the really attractive guy you’re keeping in the workshop?”

Señor balaclava doesn’t say anything, but the eyes in his ski mask narrow at me so I don’t think he’s amused. Might as well have a little humor because I’m never going to get the chance ever again.

“Can we stop at Starbucks? I’m feeling like a Chai Latte before meeting my maker,” I say.

Oh he doesn’t like me all that much but at least he’s not trying to taunt me. He grabs my arms and the metal digs painfully leaving red and deep marks in my skin. He puts zip ties over my wrists and then pulls them so tight that I can feel my skin bruise and not in the good way. It makes my hands and fingers all feel numb. At least it’s better than metal though.

“Is there any chance of me appealing to your better nature? I’ll buy you an ice cream cone!” I ask and still he hasn’t said any more words. He’s not the most talkative guy ever. I remember what it was like being an assassin in the position of killing someone, but he’s so much more unpleasant then I ever was. The best part about being The Enigma was that no one ever really knew what was about to happen. It was quick and relatively painless compared to this. Drowning sounds comparatively painful compared to a quick shot to the neck.

I’ve never really considered what it would feel like to drown, but I don’t think it’s the best way to go. I hope it’s not too cold. Because that’s what I should be worried about. The temperature of my tombstone. It’s good to know that I’ve got my priorities straight. I’m not even straight though how do you expect me to do that with my priorities?

He pulls me up onto my feet, not as roughly as he could, but I want to make this a very slow process as this is my funeral procession. How dull, no one else is here besides me and these two merciless brauds. They should be wearing black for this shouldn’t they?

I’m pulled out of the little room and I see a warehouse like building, but I haven’t a clue where on earth this is. New York, but beyond that it could be anywhere. I assume we’re somewhere near the ocean or something if they’re going to drown me.

Oh god that’s actually going to happen isn’t it? I’m actually about to die.

“You know how mortifying it is to realize that you’re clock is ticking down and you’re about to die? Now I know what it felt like for Harry to walk into that forest, or for Sam and Frodo to go into that volcano. Oh, maybe Captain Jack fighting off an army of Daleks,” I say absently as I’m shoved forward by señor balaclava to the exit. The other guy is standing there waiting by the van that nabbed me earlier which is now parked inside the vast room. I can’t actually tell how big this place is because the lights aren’t all on and there are very few windows, but I guess that it’s pretty huge. I think I can make out the shapes of some crates and stuff, but I can’t be too sure. I could probably make a run for it but I wouldn’t end up far. Guys like these carry firearms the way some people carry gum.

“Note that I used examples of heroes who ended up escaping death in the end as I fully intend to do as well,” I continue. I don’t want to be a Boromir or a Sirius Black, because that implies I actually have to die.

I’m no idiot though. I know there’s no getting out of this. I know how these things work, and I haven’t had extensive education on how to prevent yourself from being murdered. I’m a murderer I’m not on the receiving end. I guess I’m not even that though. I’m a journalist. I’m a tiny little man who doesn’t do much of anything productive, and happens to have an unnaturally attractive boyfriend who he’s never going to see again.

I want him to know what’s happening. I don’t exactly want him to know about this slow march we do to the van where I’m carelessly thrown into the back, and I don’t want him to see the details of my death, but I want him to know why I left. I don’t want him to see the pearly and blood shot gloss over my eyes or the wavy strands of dark hair flowing around my head, and I especially don’t want him to see my raisin fingers magnified across my entire body, but I wish he knew that I’m not leaving him by choice.

While it would crush him to know that I’m about to be gone forever at least he’d know that the past few weeks I spent with him meant everything to me and they weren’t fake at all. I don’t know if that’s necessarily any better than thinking that I left him though. If he thinks I’m just gone than at least he could have hope that I’ll come back, and if he thinks that I’m dead then he knows there isn’t a chance.

My body hurls against the back of the van as I’m tossed inside, and the doors slam shut as mister-sadist man climbs into the back with me. The engine starts up and the dread gts worse. I want to cry or scream but I have some small amount of ego that I don’t want to put a flame thrower through with my final minutes.

The car jerks one way and my body goes with it because it’s not very secure or anything and mister-sadist man smiles at me to my right while looking at me.

I speak glumly as my head hits painfully on the wall, “You know you don’t have to look so gleeful, you are committing a murder after all.”

“Does it count as murder if no one cares about the deceased?”

“I don’t know man does it count as theft if you leave a nickel and bag of Fritos behind?” I mock with a stupid voice.

He grimaces and then grabs my legs and starts to put another zip tie around my feet so that my bones are bound together painfully. I can feel the pointed edge of my bone rubbing against its counterpart and it stings somewhat.

I make him uncomfortable by saying sexual things as he ties my feet together securely, “Oh yeah pull it real tight, that’s the stuff.”

He’s not amused by me either. I really wish my wit weren’t lost on these two cold-blooded killers because I could dole out some pretty beautiful puns in this situation.

I don’t think there’s a way to describe just how utterly terrified I am. My whole body feels like it’s been bound even though it’s just my hands and feet. My lungs are trying to fill themselves with all the air in the world, to try to get enough to store in my body for when I’m underwater, but I seem incapable of even getting enough for right here. There’s a copper taste on my tongue and my stomach is so far past sick that I’m surprised I haven’t puked. It’s like someone has combined all the worst feelings in the world altogether and shoved them down my throat.

“I’m going to ask one more time who it is that’s ordering my death,” I speak quietly.

“Wouldn’t you love to know?” Mister-sadist man says.

“I would, yes. I would love to know what kind of a monster could do this. I don’t mean my death because that’s insignificant, but Mikey? You’re framing the wrong man and killing another just to make Gerard miserable?”

“Not to mention what’s going to happen to the editors and publishers of his comic. He can’t publish anything if the only people pulling for it are incapacitated.”

“All this? All this for one man?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Don’t you think that’s a little much? Do you even know how great a person you’re punishing? Don’t you realize just how amazing this person is and you’re leaving him worse off than dead.”

“No we’re not, we’re going to kill him,” the guy says.

“What?” I ask confused.

“We’re going to kill him,” the guy repeats, “We have connections in prison. People who aren’t afraid of killing a toothpick like his brother.”

My body starts feeling a million times worse than a minute ago. They’re killing me, and having Mikey killed. Gerard won’t know I’m dead, but he’ll know about Mikey. I’ve heard some pretty awful things about people who die in prison. It’s not a fun way to go. There aren’t any weapons. They have to make do with what they’ve got lying around. Things like pens and spoons. It’s dull and painful.

“And once you’ve killed us both you’re going to kill Gerard too,” I conclude for him trying not to sound so weak.

“Not exactly,” he says. “We’re going to leave that part up to him. We’ll provide means, but it’s his choice in the end.”

I come to understand what he means and feel myself wretch at the floor, needing to either vomit or just die right here and now. They’re going to make Gerard kill himself.

It’s a pretty good plan, and I’d love to say that I know Gerard wouldn’t do anything like that, but there’s really no telling what a person will do when they’ve lost so much. Loss is the greatest incentive for irrationality. There’s no way to hypothesize what a person will do after their brother is killed, they’ve been abandoned by their lover and they’re job falls through.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you two burn in hell,” I whisper at him and feel him slam my head against the back again. It’s starting to be incredibly agonizing, but I won’t have to deal with it soon enough. The man chuckles again and I swallow back a hurricane of insults.

I know his kind though. There are people like me who only kill people so that they can pay the rent. People who don’t particularly like the job, but it pays so it has to be done. Then there are his type. The guys who want to cause pain. The guys who like seeing people squirm and like to use a knife so that they can feel a body go limp in their arms. People like him are terrifying. Sometimes they never quite make it to assassination, but you don’t want to do bondage with a guy like him. To them, killing people is fun. It’s a game.

The car stops abruptly and once again I go hurling into something hard. I hear the sound of water lapping at the earth from outside and all I can think is that this is it. This is all I have left.

My body freezes in place, and it’s not just to make it hard for them to grab me and pull me out of the car, I just can’t move. I can’t feel my limbs nor allow air into my lungs. I become acutely aware of my own heartbeat as I’m tugged out of the back of the van like a piece of meat.

Everything seems to all be moving so quickly all of a sudden. I’m dragged by the neck of my shirt over to the side of a deserted dock and I can’t stop it. My legs are stuck together painfully so I can’t run away, and even if I could it would be a stupid little wattle.

The sky is dark with small hints of stars and the moon is nearly full, making it bright. The water below me looks dark and ominous. The last thing I want right now is to take a little swim, thank you very much. I don’t have a choice though. There’s no choice for me, I have to go.

My heart is running a marathon or something, and I can feel my blood pumping in every crevice of my body. I hear it in my ears, feel it in my arms, and even the numb parts of my toes feel the rush of blood going through me.

I take a long breath, my last breath, and squeeze a tear out of my eye as I look at the water.

As quickly as all this crap started, it all stops. A hand pushes me and I fall without hindrance into the murky water below me that is to become my grave.